


John Watson, relationship counsellor

by Ellis_Hendricks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 09:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/pseuds/Ellis_Hendricks
Summary: John finds himself with a new role that he didn't expect or particularly ask for, when Sherlock seeks his advice on progressing his relationship with Molly. Sherlolly, set post-series 4 - angst, fluff, romance and (heavily implied) bedroom activity. Originally posted to FF.net





	1. Chapter 1

"I s'pose I'd better get back to the station and file the report," Lestrade sighed, rubbing his eyes "You two need a lift back to Baker Street?"

"Normally I would say yes," John replied. "Only I don't think some of us are quite ready to leave."

He titled his head slightly to gesture to the morgue door, and more specifically what – who – lay beyond it. Lestrade rolled his eyes and gave a quick glance through the glass in the door, just to confirm. John had adapted fairly quickly to the experience of seeing Sherlock Holmes kiss Molly Hooper – it wasn't as though he had much choice, given the newness of their relationship and his own tendency to be in the wrong place at the wrong time – but what still surprised him was Sherlock's attentiveness. He had feared that Sherlock would neglect Molly when he was working, but there was no evidence of it so far – and so far, neither the work nor his relationship seemed to have suffered.

Lestrade let out a dramatic groan, and John laughed.

"A few weeks ago you were delighted for them," John smiled, folding his arms. "In fact, you were so bloody happy I thought you were going to have a heart attack."

"Yeah, I know. I just hate being surrounded by people who are having more sex than me," Lestrade replied, catching John's eye before adding, "And yeah, I realise that's a long list at the moment."

John looked at his watch and peered through the door again. Molly was seated on one of the work benches by the sinks, legs dangling, while Sherlock was leaning in, collar of his Belstaff turned up, indulging in what was now clearly his favourite pastime. Molly's fingers were in his hair, while John felt it was probably a good thing he couldn't see where Sherlock's hands were.

"Oi!" Lestrade shouted, cracking open the door to the morgue.

"Bugger off!" came Sherlock's gruff reply, immediately followed by giggling from Bart's premier pathologist.

"I'm offering you a lift, Romeo!"

"Does it look like I'm going anywhere, Lestrade?"

"He's just leaving," Molly put in, extricating herself from Sherlock's embrace and hopping down off the bench.

"Am I?"

"Yes," Molly said, patting his chest. "I've got Mrs Renshaw and Mr Evans waiting for me."

John saw her gesture to the two figures who were currently laid out on the mortuary slabs, discreetly covered by sheets. He was amazed that either Molly or Sherlock could indulge in anything amorous with this particular audience in the room.

"Neither of them have urgent appointments elsewhere," Sherlock replied, pouting slightly. John chuckled to himself – the great Sherlock Holmes, actually pouting over a girl.

"Yes, but I've already got three on my list for tomorrow as it is, and another being transferred across from Mile End," Molly continued, pulling her hair more tightly into a ponytail. "So unless you don't want me to come over tomorrow night after work, I'm going to have to make a start now."

"Fine!" Sherlock sighed. "But I'm going to be having words with Stamford about your shift pattern."

"No you're not," Molly told him. "And besides, Sherlock, Mike Stamford hasn't been my line manager for five years."

Sherlock's brow knitted into a frown.

"Really? But I spoke to him about your absence when I needed you to bring the ambulance during the Culverton Smith case."

Molly smiled, fetching a pair of safety goggles and a disposable apron from the prep station.

"That's because Mike is a sweetie, and he probably didn't think it was worth correcting you," she said.

"Why wouldn't he correct me?" Sherlock asked, with a puzzled expression.

"Possibly because you were smacked up to the eyeballs at the time," John suggested.

"And because you never bloody remember anything like that anyway," Lestrade interjected. "How many years was it before you finally got my name right?"

"It isn't my fault you don't look like a Greg," Sherlock retorted.

"Look, are you coming or not?" Lestrade asked. "Believe it or not, I do have other investigations pending."

"And I have a young child I'd quite like to get back to," John said. "Rosie's with Mrs Hudson, so I can come back to the flat with you."

Resigning himself to his fate, Sherlock slid across the room towards Molly and swept her up, earning a squeak of surprise as he lifted her clean off the floor. John cleared his throat and heard Lestrade sigh dramatically as the two of them turned their backs to give their friends some privacy.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock said, his forehead now pressed against Molly's.

She nodded, playing with the lapel of his Belstaff.

"I'll come by in the afternoon," he told her, as he started to follow John towards the door. "I'll bring those PCRs I need to run."

"Just what a girl wants," Lestrade commented with snorted laughter.

"Yes, you being a leading authority on what women want, Greg," Sherlock fired back with a raised eyebrow.

"He's got a point," John conceded, smirking.

"I'm starting to think the pair of you can just take the Tube instead," Lestrade replied gruffly, as the three men made their way out of the morgue.


	2. Chapter 2

A short time later, John found himself standing around in the car park of Bart's Hospital, as they waited for Lestrade to get off the phone – something urgent from Donovan, apparently. Sherlock, restless as ever, was shifting from foot to foot, barely able to tolerate the delay. This seemed as good a time as any.

"So," John began. "How are things going?"

Sherlock looked as him as though he'd just challenged him to explain a complex mathematical equation.

"To what are you referring, John?"

"You and Molly, you pillock. How's it going?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"Is this you attempting to engage me in 'small-talk', John, because I thought I'd made it clear on many occasions that I see absolutely no value in participating in an exchange of such trivial information?"

"Yes. You have. But now you're in a relationship and I'm your friend – and also Molly's friend – so I have a genuine interest in the welfare of both of you. Git."

Sherlock threw a glance towards Lestrade's car, as though willing the phone call that was delaying their departure – and prolonging his discomfort – to end.

"Things are going very well, thank you, John," he said eventually. "I am finding being in a relationship with Molly satisfying in the extreme, and I believe the feeling is mutual."

John smiled at the formality of it all.

"Good," he replied. "That's good."

He allowed a few moments of silence to pass.

"And what about 'things'? Everything going alright there?" John ventured.

Sherlock turned to him, puzzled.

"Didn't you just ask me that?"

"No, I asked you about things – I didn't ask you about things," John replied.

"I'm sorry, I'm not following," Sherlock said. "This is exactly what I mean about small-talk – utterly pointless and inane, and designed to baffle the uninitiated."

"Alright, boys, we're off!" called Lestrade.

"Oh, thank Christ for that!" Sherlock proclaimed, before practically sprinting for the car.

John shook his head, smiling to himself. Yes, his friend had changed a good deal over the past couple of years, but he should have known better than to try to have such a mundane conversation with Sherlock Holmes.

Before they climbed into the car, Lestrade ducked into the boot and tossed something towards Sherlock, which he instinctively caught against his chest.

"Thought you might be needing those, bud," Lestrade grinned.

John saw Sherlock glance at what he was holding before giving Lestrade one of his trademark death-stares, reserved only for the most moronic human beings he encountered: it was a set of L plates. John had to stifle a laugh, although he thought perhaps he saw a momentary flash of embarrassment in his friend's eyes.

"I'm kidding!" Lestrade laughed, clapping a brooding Sherlock on the shoulder. "I'm sure you've passed with flying colours."

Sherlock climbed into the car, discarding the offending L-plates into the foot-well.

"I'm sure Mycroft can find him a nice posting in Pyongyang," he muttered.


	3. Chapter 3

They arrived back at Baker Street to discover that Mrs Hudson had somehow found time to make a chicken chasseur as well as look after a fairly demanding infant. Of course, she always made enough for two, so John had agreed to stay and eat while Rosie – who had already been fed dinner – dozed in her car seat. He suspected that Sherlock needed the company, needed something to distract himself from Molly's absence and the fact that he had no active cases (he had become even more choosy, John noticed, since he and Molly got together, clearly placing more value on his free time, and rarely picking up anything less than a seven).

Sherlock had retreated to his desk to check through the latest case requests that had come through, leaving John to update his own blog (he knew he'd be too tired to do it once he'd got Rosie into bed), but John noticed that Sherlock wasn't doing much typing. Most of the time, his fingers were steepled under his chin, staring somewhere between the screen and a point on the far wall.

It was late, definitely time to get Rosie home (Sherlock had helpfully informed him that it was not healthy or safe for a baby to be kept in their car seat for an excessive period).

"Right, I'm off, mate," he said, zipping his own laptop into its case. "See you in the morning?"

"Mmm," Sherlock replied, not moving his gaze from whatever it was fixed on.

John packed his laptop into his rucksack, along with all the bits and pieces of Rosie's that had managed to be strewn across the living room in the past couple of hours. It was only when he moved to put on his jacket that Sherlock spoke again.

"John, when you earlier asked how 'things' were going with Molly and I, were you talking about physical intimacy?"

John scratched his head, knocked off course by the surprising question.

"Er, yes. Yes, I was. But don't worry about it, Sherlock, it's none of my business."

"Why did you want to know?"

John considered this for a second.

"I wasn't trying to get information from you," he said. "Just…wanted to check that you're both alright. It's a big thing, that's all."

Sherlock nodded, seemingly considering this information.

"Yes, it is, isn't it?"

"But it's all good?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed, as though he was wrestling internally with his thoughts. It was then that John realised that Sherlock had probably been building up to this conversation for the past couple of hours.

"Molly and I…we haven't…got there yet," he said. "That is to say that we haven't yet…consummated our relationship…in that way."

John took in this information, careful to arrange his facial expression as neutrally as possible and to try to adopt a measured tone – he knew that Sherlock was reaching out to him in a way that was almost unprecedented, and one false move could make him clam up for good.

"Okay," he began. "Well, that's fine. I guess it's only been a few weeks. Don't worry about it."

"No…"

"Are you worried about it?" John ventured.

Sherlock pursed his lips, frowning again. John noted that he didn't immediately deny it.

"At the commencement of our relationship, Molly and I agreed that we wouldn't be excessively hasty. After all, ours was not an affiliation that begun in a normal fashion – rather, it followed not only a long period of friendship, but also more recent events that were traumatic for both of us, and which needed time to overcome."

"That's sensible," John replied, nodding.

"I believe that Molly felt I needed time to process everything that happened – both recently with my sister and with my family and with Victor in the decades preceding. That although we both acknowledge our feelings for each other, she wanted to ensure that this wasn't all…too much too soon for me. And it's important to me, too, that Molly doesn't feel any obligation, any urgency to take things forward before she is ready."

"Sounds like you're both putting each other's feelings first, which is good," John said.

"Mmm," Sherlock replied. "That was the intention, but now…"

"You're worried Molly still isn't ready?"

Sherlock gave him a look, the one that regularly told him that he had the wrong end of the stick – again.

"No, I'm worried that she is. Our…interactions…the increased initiation of physical contact, the nature of that contact…it has led me to certain deductions."

"So, she's ready…but you're not?" John offered, treading carefully.

Sherlock blinked rapidly, staring down at the desk rather than making eye contact of any sort.

"I find myself thinking of nothing else," he replied, sighing. "Every bloody second of the day. It's exhausting, thinking about it, about Molly, all of the time!"

John let out a chuckle.

"Welcome to everyday life for the average heterosexual male, my friend!" he said, earning a dark look in return from Sherlock who, he knew, detested being considered average in any aspect of his life. "But thinking about it doesn't necessarily mean you're actually ready for it."

Sherlock sighed.

"It's not my readiness that concerns me," he said. "I love Molly and I'm more than ready to show her. And it's not what you think, John – I do have some experience in this area."

"This area?" John replied, trying to conceal his amusement at Sherlock's apparent defence of his manhood.

"The act itself," Sherlock replied. "Coitus."

John gave a short laugh.

"Quick piece of advice, mate – don't call it that. Might kill the mood."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as though being forced to deal with a particularly slow-witted child.

"But I am…acutely aware that my experience is…limited," he continued, quietly. "And, I tend to think, not…usual."

Something in his tone made John know immediately that Sherlock was referring to The Woman without wishing to actually utter her name. Yep, from what he'd seen of Irene Adler's website, 'usual' wasn't one of her specialities.

"It leaves me feeling…ill-prepared for what's ahead," Sherlock concluded, a shyness creeping into the tenor of his voice. He stood up and started to slowly pace the room, his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown.

"I always thought that sex was just a selfish act borne out of a primitive impulse, divorced from all intellectual thought or deeply-felt emotion," he continued. "But then I…I fell in love with Molly, and now I realise how it important it is to me – how vital - that she finds it…good…enjoyable."

John once again felt he was walking on a balance-beam, aware that he needed to contain his confusion at the sudden role he had been handed as Sherlock Holmes' sex therapist. He knew that one day, far in the future, he would have to have an awkward conversation with Rosie about healthy relationships, so perhaps he could view this as unexpected early practice.

"Listen…the fact that you care about that is a start," he began. "But you know the first time might not be amazing, right? It takes time to get to know each other in that way, to learn what each other likes – but that's the fun part."

"Hmm…"

Sherlock flicked his gaze up to him, his pacing slowing.

"Remember Sarah?" John asked.

Sherlock squinted, clearly trying to dredge up a memory he had long since deleted.

"Worked in a bookshop?"

"Doctor – we nearly got her killed in that disused rail tunnel, how can you not remember that?" John continued. "Well anyway, the first time she and I...you know…I fell backwards out of bed at a critical moment and landed right on my coccyx. Bloody hell, that hurt."

Sherlock snorted with laughter, despite himself.

"And the first night Mary and I, erm, took things to the bedroom, she got a really bad cramp in her ankle and ended up hopping around the room until it passed."

Sherlock was still smiling, his mood now seemingly lighter.

"But you know what?" John continued. "That stuff doesn't matter, mate. Mary and I ended up laughing hysterically about that, and it didn't do us any harm – in fact, it probably helped, took the pressure off a bit."

"So…you're advising that either Molly or I undergo some kind of injury or humiliation as part of foreplay?"

"No, of course not, you dope! What I'm saying is don't build it up too much in your mind. Don't put that pressure on yourself – or on the occasion. Yes, it's a big thing, a significant thing, but it's also just a beginning, isn't it? It's the start of something you're going to be doing together for a very long time. At the risk of sounding a bit creepy, I'm really happy for you both– excited even."

"You're right, John, that does sound a little creepy," Sherlock replied. "But thank you for your reassuring words."

"Any time," John said, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. "Although I will kill you if you tell anyone about the falling out of bed thing."

"Too late, I already texted Molly," Sherlock replied, with a wicked smile.

"What? How?!" John demanded.

His friend removed his hand from his dressing gown pocket, revealing his phone – the man had taught himself to blind-text! He wasn't completely sure how he was going to face Molly the next time he saw her – but he would remember this the next time Sherlock sought his advice on something.

"I've got to get Rosie home," John said, taking a few steps towards his sleeping daughter. "But look, the best piece of advice I can give you is to talk to Molly. Talk to her and keep talking to her. Tell her how you're feeling, tell her you're anxious – she will take care of you. Like she always has."

Sherlock was wearing his default expression of scepticism, but John could see that it was softening. He grabbed the handle of the car seat and made his way towards the door.

"Remember, Sherlock – whatever weight and significance you might put on it, it's also supposed to be fun. Keep that in mind and you'll be fine."

He saw Sherlock give the tiniest of nods in response, digesting the information.

"Oh, and you should wear the purple shirt," John added, before closing the door. "I've seen how Molly looks at you in that thing."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes lay sprawled on his stomach, every inch of his body completely and deliciously relaxed. The right side of his face had been splayed against the pillow for so long that he knew must now bear the creases from the pillowcase. His heartrate was just starting to slow to its normal rate. He could barely keep his eyes open, a combination of fatigue and the feeling of being so blissfully at ease with the world. He met Molly's gaze through heavy lids, knowing he was wearing the kind of goofy smile that he would never permit the outside world to see (although, at this moment, he didn't give a damn about anywhere beyond the four walls of his bedroom). His left arm was draped heavily and possessively around his beautiful pathologist as she lay on her side facing him, and he could just about muster enough energy to slowly trace a path with his fingers along the contours of her body. His eyes closed completely when Molly's fingers swept a few sweaty, errant curls from his forehead before coming to rest on his bicep.

Without really realising it, a noise escaped him that he didn't recognise as coming from his own body – something between a long sigh and a chuckle.

"Are you okay?" Molly giggled, tucking a long strand of her own hair back behind her ear. With her long, chestnut hair loose, Sherlock reflected, she was like a goddess who had for some reason gifted a mere mortal access to her lovely body.

"Muh-huh," Sherlock replied, momentarily wondering whether, like Samson's loss of physical strength, sex was going to render him intellectually incapacitated. Though, on balance, perhaps it was worth the sacrifice.

"So…?"

Managing to force his eyes to open a little wider, he saw that Molly's cheeks were a little more pink than the rest of her, and she was looking at him a little shyly.

"So…?" he parroted, a stupid grin spreading across his face.

"Did it…was it…good?"

From the smile twitching at her lips, Sherlock was fairly sure she knew the answer and didn't need his reassurance. He forced himself up onto his elbow, shifting his body further towards hers.

"Molly, I can barely formulate a coherent thought, let alone put that thought into words," he began, feeling as though he was slurring his words. "And this is me we're talking about. I'm usually pretty good at that kind of thing."

"You are," she agreed, smiling, humouring him, before adding. "Turns out there are other things you're not so bad at either, Sherlock."

He couldn't help it, the laughter just escaped – a low, booming rumble that made the mattress shake. He closed the distance between them, capturing Molly's lips again in a kiss that was slightly messy due to the fact that both of them had now caught the giggles. When they broke the kiss, Sherlock closed his eyes, inhaling deeply so that he could once again breath in the unique, addictive fragrance that was Molly's alone. He nuzzled into her neck, peppering it with tiny kisses, hearing her giggle into his ear as his hair and stubble tickled her skin.

"I'm glad the lady is not disappointed," he said, wrapping both arms around her and pulling her flush against his chest. His whole body seemed to crackle with electricity where her skin touched his, and Sherlock hoped the feeling would never subside.

Molly giggled at his comment.

"The lady is anything but disappointed," she replied, playing along. "In fact, the lady is starting to wonder whether the gentleman was playing down his experience…"

"Nope," Sherlock replied, welcoming the boost to his male pride and placing a tiny kiss at the corner of her mouth. "But I had a particularly lovely and skillful muse to serve as my inspiration – and teacher."

Sherlock rolled onto his back, taking Molly with him and instantly reconnecting with that wonderful sensation of her small weight on his chest. She gazed down on him, real happiness in her eyes, and he felt proud and grateful that she had given him the opportunity to be the cause of that happiness. It was more than he deserved. And John was right – once he removed the pressure from the situation and put his trust in Molly, there was nothing to be afraid of. Strip away all of the baggage, the self-doubt and the anxiety and all that was in the room was the woman he loved, who made it clear she loved him regardless of any of that.

"Why the hell did I mess about with narcotics for so long?" he pondered, looking up at her. "Sex with you is so much better. Why didn't you make me aware of that when we met all those years ago?"

Molly sniggered.

"Erm, because asking you out for coffee was hard enough. It took me days to build up to that, and it wasn't exactly successful."

"Hmm," he responded, trying hard not to dwell on his obliviousness and lack of tact back then. "Perhaps you should have offered me sex as a backup plan?"

He laughed as Molly swatted him lightly on the chest before settling her cheek against his shoulder, her head tucked just below his chin. She wrapped her small arm around his waist, her fingers lightly caressing his skin where they lay. Sherlock hadn't ever imagined it was possible to feel this close to another human being, this secure and cherished.

"You realise I'm going to need regular practice?" he said. "In the interests of honing my technique, you understand."

Molly's breath tickled his chest as she laughed softly.

"I think I can accommodate that."

"I like to be thorough," he added.

"I know. Two-hundred and forty varieties of tobacco ash," she teased.

"Two-hundred and forty-three," he replied, adopting a grave tone.

"I'm sure we can come up with some interesting hypotheses to test," Molly told him, propping herself up on his chest again, to enable their lips to meet. Sherlock revelled in the taste of her, the combination of softness and intent in her kiss so exquisite and so reassuring.

"I insist on it," he grinned. "After all, we make pretty good lab partners."

Sherlock hitched himself up into a sitting position - head still pleasantly woozy - bringing Molly with him so that she was straddling his lap. He couldn't help but chuckle at the instant shot of arousal he felt, his brain apparently eager despite his body's lethargy. Molly settled into him, placing his arms around her waist before wrapping hers around his shoulders. Her bright eyes searched his, threatening to engulf him with the warmth of their affection. Sherlock's instinct had always been to shy away in the face of such scrutiny, such intense feeling, but he was teaching himself to accept it – and to accept that he was worthy of it.

Again, John had been right – why hadn't he got himself a piece of this years ago?

From her vantage point, Molly glanced across to the side of the room.

"Sorry about your shirt," she said, frowning slightly.

John had been right about that purple shirt, too, which now lay casually abandoned on the floor, minus one of its buttons.

"It's fine," he replied, still puzzled as to what special power that particular shirt apparently held. "At least it was the only bedroom casualty of the evening, and my coccyx remains intact."

Molly burst out laughing, her hair tumbling against his chest as she buried her face in the crook of his neck.

"You're a bad friend, Sherlock Holmes," she told him when she had recovered, still trying to bite down a smile.

"I know," he replied, pressing his lips together. "Especially as his advice turned out to be rather better than I expected."

"His advice?"

"About…things."

Molly narrowed her eyes at him.

"Things?"

Sherlock watched her expression change as she finally cottoned on.

"Sherlock, did you ask John Watson for sex advice?"

He tried to decide what the right answer was before coming to the realization that Molly – as always – would see through him completely.

"You make it sound a lot more prurient than it was," he told her, watching her raise a sceptical eyebrow at him. "It's not like he gave me a step-by-step guide. John merely enquired as to how things were progressing between us and…I might have…expressed a little apprehension, so he elected to offer me the wisdom of his experience."

Molly removed her arms from around his shoulders long enough to bury her face in her hands, uttering a small groan.

"I can't believe you talked about our sex life with John," she said. "How am I supposed to look him in the eye when I pick up Rosie tomorrow afternoon?"

"I'll admit It got a bit confusing at one stage," Sherlock continued. "- the part about falling out of bed, for one thing – but his general advice was actually fairly sound."

"I'm afraid to ask…"

Sherlock took the small hands that covered her face in both of his larger ones, and gently kissed the knuckles of each, one by one.

"He told me I should talk to you," he said, his voice barely rising above a whisper. "That you would make everything alright. And that basically I should be myself, because apparently that's okay with you."

Sherlock thought he saw tears forming in Molly's eyes and immediately started to panic that he'd said something 'a bit not good', but instead she started to smile, a beautiful, open smile that reminded him of the moment - in her flat, not long after Sherrinford - when she had finally accepted that his declaration of love was real.

"Well, if that was his advice, I'm very glad you took it to heart," she smiled, nudging his nose with hers and joining their lips in a slow, tender kiss.

Sherlock felt drunk. Nicely drunk. It was a bit like John's stag do, at the point where they were back at the flat playing that stupid game with post-it notes, a rich tumbler of scotch in his hand – pleasantly buzzed, with a soothing warmth pulsing through his veins. Before he vomited in that flat, obviously. Would Molly find the comparison flattering? He thought he'd better keep quiet in case he judged it wrong.

"I'm glad, too," Sherlock replied. "Particularly given that John has proffered unsolicited advice on numerous occasions over the years, and this was the first time I didn't immediately delete it."

Molly smiled, moving her fingers up the back of his neck until they lightly scratched at his scalp. He closed his eyes. No wonder that bloody cat was always demanding to be pampered.

"Are you staying?" he asked, opening one eye.

"Um, if that's okay?"

He nodded, knowing that this experience – this profound and wonderful and fun experience - wouldn't be complete without waking up with Molly the next day.

"You mind if I have a shower?" she asked, pausing for a moment before adding, "You can come if you like?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, wondering once again what he had done in his life to deserve the attentions and affections of such a woman.

"Give me five minutes," he told her, with a wolfish grin. "My Mind Palace requires some serious updating."

Once Molly left the room, Sherlock lay back on his pillow and set about creating two new areas in his Mind Palace: a whole new suite of rooms to catalogue this first, incredible night with the woman he loved – and a new side-room that he decided to label 'John Watson: useful advice'.


	5. Chapter 5

"What?"

"I didn't say anything."

They were walking the short distance from St Paul's Tube station to Bart's Hospital, where Lestrade was due to meet them at the morgue. They'd been down to a crime scene in Stepney with Donovan and Anderson, who were arranging for the victims to be shipped across to Molly.

"I can hear you thinking, John," Sherlock insisted. "And it's painful to listen to, so out with it."

John tried not to betray his poker face with a smile. Of course it had crossed his mind about how Sherlock might have chosen to follow his advice, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of asking and have Sherlock accuse him of seeking salacious details. He actually had no interest in any salacious details, preferring to keep Molly Hooper firmly in more comfortable categories such as 'friend', 'pathologist' and 'Rosie's godmother'. But when he chanced a glance across at his friend as they walked, John was certain Sherlock was smiling to himself – which suggested very strongly that he wanted to share something, but would never offer it unless he could manipulate John into asking first.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd sacrificed his dignity to preserve Sherlock Holmes' ego.

"Did you see Molly last night?"

"Why do you ask?"

With Sherlock's gaze fixed straight ahead, John rolled his eyes; once again, he was expected to play the stooge.

"Well, after what we talked about the other night, I thought you might have decided to put some of that theory into practice," he replied.

This was a ridiculous charade. John knew damn well something had happened, from the moment they met up outside Stepney Green Station two hours ago. One look at Sherlock's face was enough – for a man not known for his sunny disposition, he seemed to be fighting a constant battle to keep a smile at bay. And for once, the prospect of a juicy murder was not the sole cause. John would almost go far as to say that Sherlock had a spring in his step, if it wasn't so bloody clichéd.

"Molly and I had a very pleasant evening, John. I will say no more."

John smirked, and this time Sherlock glanced back and betrayed himself with the slightest of smiles. He was clearly itching to share, but needed John to find a way of making it acceptable; luckily, John had become somewhat of an expert in re-framing conversations.

"Your place?"

"Yes."

"Did you wear the shirt?"

"Yes."

"Did the shirt survive?"

"Not entirely."

"Did you injure yourself?"

"No."

"Did you injure Molly?"

"No!"

"Did you take my advice?"

A pause. They were almost at the main double doors at the front of Bart's Hospital.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

John could do little to hold back the smile that now started to spread across his own face.

"You had fun, then?"

"Oh yes."

"Planning some more fun tonight?"

"Indeed, yes."

"You gonna thank me?"

There – an unmistakable twinkle in his friend's eye.

"Thank you, John."

John chuckled, his hand clapping Sherlock's shoulder as they walked past the reception desk at the morgue. Sherlock flashed his honorary staff badge as they passed through, John picking up on his friend's almost palpable feeling of expectation and anticipation. He started to wonder whether Sherlock had even remembered that three enforcers from one of East London's foremost criminal gangs were currently cooling in the mortuary ahead of them – or whether an imminent audience with a particular specialist registrar was consuming his thoughts completely.

When they entered the morgue, Molly was in the process of carrying out an external exam on a body still contained within a bag, a Dictaphone poised in one hand. On looking up and seeing Sherlock, the previous look of concentration was replaced with the kind of transforming smile that only Sherlock seemed to be capable of bringing about. John's gaze flicked to Sherlock, whose cool exterior lasted mere seconds before crumbling completely – he beamed back at her without a trace of self-consciousness or hesitation. He did, however, look a little uncertain as to the protocol of 'greeting the woman with whom you have recently had sex'. No matter, because Molly solved the problem for him. Dropping the recording device and pulling off her surgical gloves, she took a few steps towards Sherlock before taking him by the lapels of his Belstaff and purposefully drawing his mouth down to hers. John pivoted his feet, wondering how long he would have to spend staring at the morgue's wall-mounted Health and Safety policy before it was reasonable to turn around.

"Hello, John," Molly said, after a good few moments.

"Hi Molly," he replied, noticing that there was perhaps a little shyness in her voice. Did she suspect that he knew? "Sorry, for a moment there I thought I'd maybe disappeared into the décor."

She smiled at that, attempting to take a step back, before Sherlock drew her towards him again.

"Not again!"

The doors to the morgue swung open and Lestrade strode in, a broad grin on his face.

"Last time I checked, this was a mortuary and not a nightclub at turning-out time!" he said, throwing a wink in John's direction. "Sherlock, you're going to have to learn to check your libido at the door from now on, otherwise there's going to be backlog of unexamined corpses from here to Mile End."

Noting the sarcastic smile his friend was aiming at the Detective Inspector, John reflected – not for the first time – that it was surely destiny that Sherlock Holmes had found his soulmate in a woman who spent her days extracting secrets from the dead.

"You're assuming that it was Sherlock leading me astray, Greg, and not vice versa," Molly interjected, finally taking a step back towards the body that had previously occupied her attention.

"Well, I'm starting to think Mr Observant might be off his game a bit," Lestrade continued. "Although for once, that's good news for me. I think I've just bagged myself fifty quid."

John couldn't help but smile to himself when he saw the mixture of confusion and suspicion that passed across Sherlock's face.

"Sorry, mate," John said, suppressing a laugh as he gestured towards Sherlock's back. Sherlock twisted around like a dog fruitlessly trying to grab its tail, but Molly cottoned on first, encouraging him to stand still so that she could retrieve something from the back of his coat...

A green P-plate, attached by safety pin.

Sherlock's face was a picture – a momentary 'o' of surprise swiftly followed by a thunderous glower. His pathologist, John could see, was struggling with the dilemma of supporting her beloved versus the inherent humour of the situation.

By this time, of course, Lestrade was practically roaring with laughter.

"So when-?" Sherlock began, before the realisation dawned on him. "Donovan. She had Anderson distract me with that imbecilic question about blood-spatter marks, didn't she, while she made her play?"

"Sally was convinced it wouldn't work," Lestrade nodded. "But it's easy to distract a man who's already distracted, am I right?"

"Shut up, Greg."

"So, hang on, did he-?" Molly began.

"Journey halfway across London with those on his back?" John answered. "Yes. Yes he did."

"I thought those bloody uniforms were laughing at me," Sherlock fumed. "But I put that down to your choice of jacket this morning, John."

"What's wrong with my coat?" John demanded. It was the same black donkey jacket he regularly wore.

"Makes you look like a coal miner," Sherlock replied. "I've always thought so, but believed it impolite to draw attention to it. I know personal styling really isn't your thing."

"Well, now I definitely don't feel guilty about keeping quiet," John told him. "And it serves you right for sending that text to Molly the other night."

Molly was biting her lip to prevent laughing. John figured that in terms of embarrassment levels, he and Molly were now probably around about equal.

"What text?" Lestrade demanded.

"Never mind," John, Sherlock and Molly said, almost completely in unison.

A little while later, John found himself alone in the morgue with Molly, Sherlock having dashed off the lab to compare tissue samples from an earlier case, and Lestrade having ducked out to make a phone call to his forensics team. He half wondered whether Molly would use the opportunity to chastise him for his part in the Yard's practical joke. But he was completely mistaken.

"You're a good friend to him, John," she said quietly, looking up from her clipboard. "This is all so new to Sherlock – I mean, not just that, all of it - and it's almost too big for the two of us to handle by ourselves. So…thank you."

He felt his mouth twitch into a smile.

"You're welcome," he replied, truly meaning it. "It's in my interests to make sure he doesn't cock it all up entirely. I can't imagine how unbearable he'd be. Though, if it's okay with you, I think I'm going to resign my brief role as Sherlock Holmes' sex therapist."

Now Molly really was blushing.

"I think we'll manage from here," she replied, smiling shyly.

John picked up his coat (the one that apparently made him look like a coal miner), deciding to go and see what was keeping his friend up in the lab. He stopped before he reached the door, unable to resist.

"Wait," he said. "Was I supposed to teach him where babies come from?"

He had just enough time to slip out of the morgue door before the balled-up pair of latex gloves Molly had launched at him made direct contact with his head. John was beginning to see that a new chapter of their lives was unfurling in front of him, and that – like it or not – this was probably not the end of his involvement in Sherlock Holmes' love life.

And somewhere out there, Mary was softly, fondly, laughing at him - and with him all the way.

THE END


End file.
